


Beauty in Destruction

by AcidicNightmare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Probation Officer/Charge, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 20:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13620942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidicNightmare/pseuds/AcidicNightmare
Summary: "I'm not human. I never was. So why are you expecting me to act like one?" (Hiatus)





	1. The Re-Written Agreement

**The Re-Written Agreement**

The sound of a muffled thud coming from the front door matched the throbbing rhythm of Pansy’s head. “Ugh,” she groaned, pushing the hair from her face and thrusting her left palm into her eye socket and giving it a hard rub. “Go away!” she called out weakly.

But still, the knocks persisted, growing in intensity with each passing moment.

With a huff, the young witch pushed her knees up to her chest and heaved herself to a sitting position. Placing her arm behind her, Pansy struggled to remain upright as her head spun.

_Thud, thud, thud._

“Fuck off!” she tried louder, rubbing her fingers to each temple. Her voice rang horse, cracking with each syllable. Groggily, she began to scan through her mind, trying to pinpoint exactly who in the bloody hell could be showing up at—wait, what time is it? She squinted, checking the thin silver watch at the pulse point of her wrist.

Two in the afternoon.

It definitely wasn't Nott, Zabini, or any others from that lot, she knew. Her former classmates wouldn't have even bothered knocking in the first place. “Parkinson!” she heard a deep voice say, muffled behind the thick oak door.

 Who—  

_Thump, thump, thump._

This time the knocks were harsher, louder, and more urgent. “I'm coming!” she snapped, swinging her legs to the side of the bed. Pushing herself to a stand, she stumbled a bit and fell back, her head spinning as she steadied herself in several attempts to remain in an upright position.

_Thump, thump, thump._

Pansy looked around her wide bedroom, squinting as light pooled in through the crack of her blackout curtains. Sighing, she reached for the first shirt within arms distance and hoisted it over her head, wincing as her limbs ached from whatever toll last night's activities had taken on her.

 _Thump, thump, thump._  

Shuffling her feet, the raven-haired witch made her way to the huge, carved closet that took up an entire wall in her sleeping quarters. The beads that hung in front jingled and clanked together as she thrust them to the side and ripped into a small drawer. After minimal digging, she found an acceptable pair of purple knickers to throw on.

_Thump, thump, thump._

“Pansy, open the bloody door!” she heard the voice say again, just as she snapped the waistband into place. Scowling, she ran a hand through her hair and made her way through the tall archway, closing in on the front door to answer it— if only to stop the incessant knocking.

_Thump, thump—_

“I said fuck off!” she said as she threw the door open, revealing a very familiar and incredibly ticked off looking wizard.

His hair just as messy and disheveled as it had always been, Harry Potter stood glaring at her just over the threshold of her front door’s entryway. His eyes flashed emerald green behind a pair of round black spectacles, his brows knitted together in a scowl. “Why the hell did it take you so long to answer the door?” he snapped.

Pansy sighed, leaning her body weight on the archway. “I was sleeping,” she stated bluntly. “Very soundly, might I add, until Officer Arseface showed up at my flat, demanding my presence.”

Harry looked at her as if she had transfigured herself into a pygmy puff and started doing the wizard’s waltz. "At two o'clock in the afternoon?"

Pansy scoffed, “I'm sorry I didn't expect my probation Auror to show up on a Saturday, of all days.” Harry glared at her for just an in instant, pushing his way past the door and into the small townhouse.  
  
“By all means, _do_ come in,” she said, her words laced with sarcasm. “You know how much I love your erratic drop-ins.”

“It's Wednesday, Parkinson.”

Pansy’s brow furrowed in confusion and she dropped her gaze to the floor, lazily pushing the door closed behind her with her foot and making her way into the attached kitchen. "Besides, it shouldn’t have been unanticipated. You'd know that I was scheduled for a visit if you had bothered to check your owls, an—wait, why aren't you wearing any trousers?" Harry asked critically, cutting himself off mid-sentence.

She glanced at the stack of unopened letters sitting on her kitchen table, ignoring the question as she began pouring a scalding hot cup of black coffee. Grabbing her pack of menthol cigarettes she kept on the counter, she stuck one in her mouth and fumbled with the damned Muggle lighter she never quite got used to operating.

Once she got the sodding thing lit, she took a deep drag, the nicotine seeping into her lungs.

"Nirvana?" Harry asked, earning a confused look from the half-naked witch standing in the kitchen. Turning her head, she met his eyes as he jabbed his chin out, gesturing to her top. "You know that's a Muggle band, right?"

Glancing down, Pansy tugged the shirt taut to read the front. It had a bright yellow smiley face down the middle, with matching letters that read “ANAVRIN” beneath it. “Huh,” she grunted, mocking interest. “To be honest, I couldn't even tell you who this shirt originally belonged to.”

“ _Classy_ ,” he mocked, grabbing the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

Setting her mug on the coffee table in the sitting room, she threw down her cigarettes and plopped lazily on the couch behind her and grabbed an ashtray.

“Why are you here, Potter?” she said lazily, taking another drag and watching as he shifted uncomfortably. He had gotten taller since school and filled out considerably. His once highly visible lightning bolt scar now sat faded underneath raven-black fringe, his skin tanned and his arms folded over one another as he looked down at her.

“Close your legs, Parkinson. I didn't come to talk face to face with your purple lace knickers,” he said uneasily, redirecting his eyes. Pansy's eyebrows shot up, a condescending smirk tugging at her mouth.

“I didn't even know they were lace,” she muttered, causing Harry’s cheeks to twinge into a light shade of pink. “How very observant of you. But I think ogling one of your charges is—”

“Don't be disgusting, just go put something on,” he said sternly, pointing in the direction of her bedroom.

“Why?” she prodded. “Am I making you feel uncomfortable?”

Harry’s eyes hardened, his jaw tightening, while Pansy’s blue eyes danced with delight. She loved making him squirm.  

"It's not appropriate," he said finally. "Besides, no one wants to see the bruises covering your legs, suspiciously in the shape of handprints. I can only assume they're from whatever poor sod you lured into your clutches last night. I, of all people, am the very last person who wants to see that! So, I say again— as your assigned Auror—Go. Put. On. Trousers!”

Pansy arranged her face into a scowl, plunging the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray with force, and made her way into the bedroom. “Yes, sir!” she called back sarcastically.

Harry Potter was never overly pleasant towards her. She could only assume it was partially because he was still bitter about her attempting to give him up to Lord Snake Face during the final battle. Or maybe because although he was considered the “savior” of the wizarding world, she still refused to treat him as if Merlin barfed him up on a silver platter.

Salazar knows the rest of the bloody world treated him as such.

He also didn't want to take her as a charge, as he’s told her this often, usually whenever they got into a particularly nasty argument. Though she assumed his current mood had to do with the latest headline smeared across every magical paper in Great Britain: “WAR HERO HARRY POTTER LEFT AT ALTAR, GINNY WEASLEY RUMORED TO BE HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH DRACO MALFOY, EX DEATH EATER?”

The paper was shite. At least the part about Draco having an affair with the Weaslette, anyway. That’s not to say that the silver-haired Slytherin prince had been completely innocent. No one else knew what she knew about his affairs, and even Draco himself tried desperately to keep it hidden. But alas, she knew him better than anyone.

Truth was, her former schoolyard fling had been actively shagging none other than the Gryffindor princess and third half of the golden trio—Hermione Granger.

Not that the development had surprised her, in reality. Even as far back as third year, she herself could practically cut their sexual tension with a knife. It was one of the reasons Pansy had been so harsh on her back then. Besides the obvious fact that she was a know-it-all brainy swot.

Granger hadn't changed much since then, but as Pansy’s feelings towards the young Malfoy heir dwindled, she seemed to become more tolerable as time went on.

It had been the small things that clued her in on their affair. Soft touches when they thought no one had been looking, heated gazes from across the room— not to mention the fact that Draco had taken to complaining about her almost constantly. He always found some way to bring her into the conversation.  
  
“Her hair is just so _impractical_ , I don’t know why she doesn’t take more pride in her appearance.”  
“Of course Granger _had_ to be the one to find that level two error in the contract, who else?”  
“Do you think she just doesn’t _know_ about Sleekeazy’s? Should I just leave a bottle on her desk as a hint?”

Pansy figured that it was his attempt to cover up the whole thing. But to her, they were so bloody obvious she wondered how no one else even seemed to pick up on it themselves. Not that it would have been a big deal if people _did_ know. They were two single, _grown_ adults, for Merlin's sake. She did suspect, however, that maybe they didn't want their friends finding out. That might turn into a disaster rather quickly.

The thought to slip the information to Potter had crossed her mind a few times. Usually on a day where he was particularly nasty, but she always decided against it. It just wasn't her secret to tell.  

By the time Pansy made it back to the sitting room, Harry had made himself at home on her couch. An array of papers cluttered her large coffee table that sat in the middle of the room, but her eyes were instantly drawn to a particularly small, thin metal box clutched in his left hand. Her heart pounded as she tried to swallow down the lump in her throat.

“Is that my—”

“Sit _down_ , Parkinson.”

He didn't even throw a glance her way as he muttered the command. Instead, he simply sat on her sofa, flipping through various pieces of parchment.

The young witch stayed quiet, not even managing to shoot him her signature scowl like she normally did when he got all authoritative towards her. The walk was agonizing, her feet feeling like lead with every step she took.

She continued to stare anxiously at the silver box clutched tightly in his hand as she lowered herself next to him on the sectional. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours as he finished what he was doing and looked up towards her. His green eyes softened a bit as he met her face, which, for once in her life, was devoid of any scowl or hint of irritation. Clearing his throat, her sky-blue eyes darted up to his face.

“You've done well,” he said softly. “I know it's taken you a long time to get to this point. What should have been six months probation for your transgressions in the war quickly turned to three years after all of your penalties.” Pansy said nothing, her throat suddenly feeling unbelievably dry. "But—" he continued gently. "For the past year, you haven't failed a single drug test or been penalized for any unapproved apparition. You've made curfew, attended your meetings—”

“Get to the bloody point, Potter!” she snapped, no malice behind her voice, only uncertainty.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “We're re-granting you the rights to your wand. You'll still be on probation for a remaining six months, but I pushed for a re-arrangement of your agreement, so you'll find it to be a bit less restrictive—”

“Why?” she asked, cutting him off.

Harry shifted in his seat, running a hand through his hair and readjusting his glasses. Deep purple rings sat beneath his sunken eyes, and she could faintly make out a bit of darkened chin stubble. The second half of the newspaper headlines might have been shite, but looking at him now, there was no doubt that his problems went beyond a phony newspaper article.

“Despite what you might want to believe,” he said flatly, “I'm not a sodding tyrant. You may be a heartless bitch who slags around humping anything with a pulse, but you're not evil.”

The tiny spark of sympathy for the arsehole prat blew to smoke as Pansy’s lip twitched into a scowl.

“Just because your precious flower of a wank stain left you, doesn't mean you need to take it out on other people, Potter.” Harry's jaw dropped for a fraction of a second before he clapped his mouth shut and returned her irritated glare. He glanced down at the stack of parchment in front of him, tightening his jaw before handing her a quill.

“This is your re-written agreement,” he said, choosing to ignore her jab. “You'll still have a curfew, but you're to be in this house by two instead of midnight. Apparition is allowed but will be closely monitored. You'll be having weekly meetings with me—"

Pansy scowled.

“But it'll be here instead of you having to go to the Ministry. Do remember the days I'm coming next time, and be fully clothed," he emphasized. "Your scheduled drug tests have concluded, but I reserve the right to give you one of I suspect any unprescribed potions or herbs. Oh, and upon each meeting, I will be monitoring your wand, just so you're aware."

As he went on, she looked down at the parchment, skimming the writing. It looked to be about 14 separate pages, pretty legal speak outlining her initial agreement and the re-write. Before he was even done speaking, she flipped to the last page, signing the dotted line so hard she almost cracked the tip of the enchanted quill.

“Okay, now that's done, you're going to need to sign the wand disclosure agreement,” Harry said, flipping through another stack and tugging a single page loose. Pansy stared at it as he set in in front of her for what seemed like hours before shakily lowering her hand and loosely scribbling her name.

For three years, she had not been allowed to touch another wand, and now she was about to get her own back. After several infractions on her record (followed by extensions on her terms) the young witch accepted the fact that she would be living like a squib for the rest of her life.

Always being around magic, but never allowed to partake in it. Not even for a side-along apparition.

She watched as other war criminals, the ones like her who didn't end up in Azkaban, waited out their sentencing in stride. She stood by as they eventually joined the rest of wizarding society, no more restrictions weighing on their shoulders. Even Draco Malfoy—who had stricter guidelines than she did, and for a full probationary period of a year as opposed to her initial six months —eventually gained his wand and full privileges back. He had even ended up working for the Ministry after, working side by side with people like Granger

But Pansy was a fuck up. And if anything, she was consistent.

Harry's hand brushed hers as he mindlessly reached for the quill, his brows knitted together as he leafed through the papers. She watched as he hovered above the dotted line, then, with a sigh, leaned down and signed his name right beneath hers. Their names grew bright for a just a moment before the enchanted ink settled within the tooth of the paper; finalizing the agreement.

The entire thing seemed surreal.

Lifting the box up, Harry gave it a knock, the latches flying up to reveal her wand. The wood, made of holly, still looked as polished as the day it had been taken. The nine-and-a-half-inch wand had always suited her, made with a dragon heartstring core. As soon as Harry placed it in her hand, she felt the familiar thrum of magic spread itself up her fingers, wrap around her wrist, and tingle as it spread throughout her body.

“Don't make me regret this Parkinson,” Harry warned in a stern voice. “If everything goes well, I can finally sign you off as a charge. Just… just keep your head low so the discharge hearing can go as smoothly as possible, yeah?”

So that's why he pushed so hard for her. Well, fine, the feeling was mutual. Only six more measly months of putting up with Potter, and he'd be out of her life for good. "Yeah, whatever," she drawled, forcing a bored tone as she stretched to a stand. "We are done here? I've got plans."

Rolling his eyes, Harry pulled out his own wand and gave it a flick, making copies of the agreement and setting them on the corner of the table. Pansy tapped her foot impatiently.

“Your boy toys can wait a few more minutes,” he said offhandedly. “And even if they can't, I'm sure you'll find another.”

“What's with your sudden interest in my love life, Potter?”

Harry scoffed, standing up and making his way towards the front door. “I don't think getting sloshed every night and bringing blokes back to your flat counts as a love life,” he jabbed.

“Have you been following me?!”

“It's my job,” he said sternly, making his way through the door. “Don't try to twist my wo—”

“Whatever, see you next meeting,” she drawled lazily, cutting him off. With a flick of her wand, the door shut firmly in the chosen prat’s face, the locks clicking in place.

Only six more months.

 


	2. Pansy the Fuck-Up

**Pansy the Fuck-Up**

 

The world spins, and Pansy grips the dingy wall in the dark alley of her apparition point, steadying herself. The muffled hum of bass music thumped, a crowd of voices ricocheting down the street. Her heart hammers and she pauses for just a moment, re-adjusting her outfit to steady her nerves.

Her pencil skirt is longer than she wears normally, and she tugs it down over her torn and frayed fishnet stockings. Not that it matters much, as the loose faded yellow flannel she threw on last-minute is big enough to cover her entire torso on its own.

She idly picks at her already-chipped black nail polish, looking nervously in the direction of her destination. She wants to turn around. She wants to go back to the dirty, seedy Muggle pubs she had been frequenting for many months now. She wants to hide away, shielding herself from beady little eyes that hold silent scrutiny.

Well, perhaps the scrutiny hadn't always been so quiet. In fact, more commonly than not, those around her hadn't even bothered to lower their voices when speaking about the fuck up that is Pansy Parkinson. But she wasn't a Gryffindor. Nor was she a Hufflepuff. She was a Slytherin, and Slytherin witches had self-preservation down cold in their nappies.

There once was a time where she'd been prepared for the harsh words muttered her way. Something equally cruel to reply back with, cocked and loaded, ready to tell such a person who dared insult a Parkinson where precisely they could shove various body parts.

But that was the past. As was pushing away the wandering hands from strange— _and sometimes not so strange_ —men. They always seemed to find their way to her arse, especially when no one else was looking.

Now she simply sat still and quiet, letting it happen.

Her pride died quickly, along with all blood prejudices. Not that she ever truly believed that Muggles or Muggleborns were weaker or beneath Purebloods in the first place. Truth be told, she had been under the assumption that everyone was beneath _her_ ; Muggles, Mudbloods, Half-bloods, the like. Even most Purebloods weren't good enough to be in her presence.

Because she was a _Parkinson_ , and she belonged to one of the most sacred twenty-eight wizarding families in Britain. Her bloodlines were rivalled only by that of the Malfoys, and she had more Galleons in her pocket than entire families like the Weasleys had seen in their entire lives. 

Her racist and demeaning condescension towards those less than her stemmed from a position of power, which now, she had none of.

Sure, she got to keep her hefty vault at Gringotts. But that was merely due to the fact that the Ministry could never pin her parents on their part in funding the Dark Lord and his cause, despite their suspicions. Though the wealthy family provided the money, they weren't marked and took no physical presence in the war. 

As long as the psychopathic wizard remained funded, there had been no reason for him to come after them and demand they fight. And as long as they kept the payments hidden and untraceable— there would be no way the Ministry could possibly tie them to the opposing force. All in all, they played both sides, and were determined to come out unscathed; no matter who emerged victoriously. Which they had. 

Well, except for Pansy.

It wasn't that she particularly hated Potter back then. Sure, he was an insufferable git with a saviour complex, but other than that she didn't have a huge hard-on to see the boy die. However, when push came to shove, and the Dark Lord sent out the message to hand over the chosen one, Pansy much more valued her own life. From what she had experienced so far that year alone, there had been no doubt in her mind that Voldemort would win the war and change the life of the wizarding world forever.

So yes, she had made an attempt to capture boy wonder. Who wouldn't? It's not like her life would have been spared due to an entirely replaceable investment from her family.

But imagine her surprise after everything was said and done. The smoke had cleared, and there stood Harry Potter, alive and well on the battlefield while a dead snake-mutant lay at his feet. Of course, Pansy's actions weren't forgotten, however. Since the Ministry couldn't pin anything on the Parkinsons as a unit, they instead focused on her. A young, scared, pure-blooded heiress, trapped in the middle of a battle.

Her downward spiral into destruction was now a blur, starting off with her initial six-month sentencing and growing increasingly worse with each citation she received. Her parents didn't speak to her, at least not properly. No, now they saw her as a stain upon their household. To them, her crimes ruined everything the family stood for. Especially their perfect image of what a proper wizarding family should look like. 

She got to keep her access to the family vaults, of course. But only as long as she agreed to show up to lunch once a month, somewhere very public, in order to keep up appearances for the media.

Tonight, Pansy's decision to come to this particular pub wasn't an easy one. Two Quidditch teams (of which she hadn't been half-arsed to know or care about) had played in the semi-finals for the World Cup. She knew that most, if not everyone she knew would be here celebrating. The thought alone made her queasy.

But she had gotten her wand back, and although she would deny it outright, deep down the young witch still yearned for acceptance and some semblance of her old life back. Her mind screamed at her, telling her that if someone like Draco Malfoy could lose absolutely everything and find his way to bounce back, then she could too.

_Snap_

_Giggle_

_Moan_

The noise came from the corner of the alleyway, safely tucked behind the back of the building. Snatching her wand from the security of her waistband, she held it out steadily as she approached. “Lumos,” she whispered, a white light erupting from the tip.

Hidden almost out of sight stood a couple, their backs facing her some meters away. A familiar head of white-blond hair is the first thing to catch her eye, shining in the dim light. A smirk tugged at the corner of Pansy's mouth as she watched him pin a petite brunette against the wall, his mouth clasped beneath her jawline, her hands tangled in his hair. “Huh,” she grunted, startling them both. The man whipped around at once, drawing his wand and aiming it directly at her face. The action amused Pansy, and she put her hands up in mock surrender.

“ _Parkinson_?” he gasped, his breathing shallow. “What are you-”   
    
“Gods Draco,” she cut him off, feigning shock. “That sure doesn't _look_ like Weaslette.”

“Well, I—”   
    
 “Unless you have some weird fetish with Polyjuice potion,” she continued, “Which, I have no room to judge, trust me— I could swear that's _Granger_ hiding behind you. Think the ginger bitch will be upset that her lover was caught snogging the bookworm senseless in a darkened alleyway?”   
    
Draco's arms relaxed, and he dropped his head, rubbing his temple. Hermione stood behind him, tugging down her salmon-pink dress and avoiding eye contact. Pansy relished in the awkwardness of it all. "Look," Draco said, finally dropping his hand to glare at her. "You can't tell anyone."   
  
Pansy let out a low chuckle, “Oh, I am going to tell _everyone_.”   
   
“No, _please_!” Granger shouted, pushing past Draco and gripping the raven-haired witch’s arm as she turned to leave. “ _I just—I—We—_ ” she stammered. Pansy smirked.

“Relax Granger,” the blond called out, his tone flat. “She's joking.”

Hermione's eyes grew wide, her grip loosening, “Oh.”

Pansy's smile broadened and she crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes Hermione.

“She was about ready to obliviate me,” she entertained, watching as the Gryffindor Princess' face reddened. “So, I take it that's a no on the whole shagging Ginny Weasley thing, yeah?”

“Yeah,” was all he offered, shuffling uncomfortably.  “It’s a no.”

* * *

 

I'm serious Pansy,” Draco said, his voice in a harsh whisper as he brought over another round of Ogden’s. The Slytherin Prince had been buying her drinks all night so far, and Pansy wasn't oblivious to his form of bribery. Although she already planned on keeping the confirmation of her suspicions to herself, she never turned down free drinks. “Even Nott,” he added, his tone pleading.

She scoffed. “Theo hasn't talked to me since he started dating that Violet girl,” she said, shooing away the idea with her hand and taking a sip of her newly acquired drink.

“ _Veronica_ ,” he corrected, rolling his eyes.

“Mmmm, Mhmm!” she grunted, swallowing her mouthful. “Yes, her. He even cut off his midnight visits to my flat for her and everything. I think he's serious."

Draco smirked at that, picking up his own glass. “Theo isn't serious about anything,” he said, his eyes scanning around the pub. “Or anyone. It'll wear off.”

“I don't know, maybe she has the Elder wand stashed up her twat or something,” she shrugged, “He actually seems smitten.”

“No, Potter destroyed that damn wand,” Draco muttered as if she were serious. “Oh! Potter! Don't tell him either. Especially don't tell him. I don't need boy wonder probing into my life."

Pansy’s face deadpanned. “Why in Salazar would I ever tell my probation Auror _anything_ , let alone gross details about someone else’s love life?" she asked, giving him a swift swat on the shoulder before pointing a finger at him. "And don't get me started about him probing into your life, he showed up at my flat this morning. About had a heart attack because I wasn't wearing any trousers." 

Draco barked out a laugh, and Hermione looked to him from across the room, her mouth pressing into a thin line. Pansy smiled, shooting her a wink.

“What I wouldn't have paid to see that,” he said, taking another big swig of his firewhiskey. “I earn my own money now, and I'd still pay.”

She chuckled, “Bout thought he would pop a bloody broom handle when he started in on his ' _I am your PA_ ’ speech.”

“Yeah, I can imagine…” Draco replied, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat, “I see you've got your wand back, though. Shouldn't be too much longer.”

Pansy gulped, desperately wanting to change the subject.

"So why don't you want anyone to know about you and Granger?" she probed, "You know, the bet our house made about the two of you humping like lawn gnomes was made years ago. It's not like you'd _really_ have to pay up. After all, we know you don't have the galleons to lose.”

Draco fell silent, suddenly interested in the ring of liquid his glass had left on the table, “Touché,”

* * *

It was sometime after midnight, and Pansy’s vision had begun to get fuzzy. After Draco had left about two hours prior, the reality of where she was beginning to sink in further. It felt as if all eyes were on her, whispers turning to shouts in her head, and she began doing shots of tequila to try and drown it out.  “I'll be right back,” she slurred to the nameless wizard she had been dancing with.

Struggling to walk, she managed to stumble her way out the front door, the cool November air hitting her cheeks. Closing her flannel tight around her, she plunged her hand into her pocket to find her pack of cigarettes and lighter.

_Click_

_Click_

_Click_

“Shit!” she groaned, pushing her hair out of her face and leaning against the wall behind her.

“You do know you have a wand for that, right?” the gruff voice sounded familiar, but his face didn't register.

“Do I know you?” she asked with a scowl.

The man's eyebrows shot into his shaggy blonde hair for an instant. “Let me help you with that,” he offered, drawing a short stubby wand and lighting her cigarette.

“Thanks,” she said, blowing out a long stream of smoke and watching it swirl into the midnight air. 

They sat in silence for several moments.

“So…” the man said awkwardly.

“So?” she returned bluntly, flicking the ashes off the end of her cigarette.

“You really don't remember me?” he asked, his brow dipped in confusion.

“Should I?”

He shuffled uncomfortably.  “We uh,” he scratched his head, “We spent a night together a couple years back. I wanted to get together again but you never left me your address. Haven't seen you show up here since.”

“Sorry,” Pansy replied unapologetically. “No hard feelings, yeah?” Flicking her butt into the street, she turned to head back inside. But the man was quick, snatching her arm and drawing her back in front of him.

Her heart raced. “I thought maybe we could...yanno.” His voice was deep, his brown eyes penetrating. His breath smelled of some sweet liquor she couldn't quite place, and his grip tightened on her as he slid an arm around her waist.

“I'm not interested thanks,” she said, placing her hands on his chest and giving him a slight shove.

“You were interested before,” he breathed into her ear. “I can still remember what you looked like when you were riding me. I haven't been able to get the vision out of my head.”

“I said _I'm not interested_!” she said again, harsher this time, pushing against him with her whole body.

But he was strong. And now his hands were on her arse and thighs and he was rough, hard, and unwelcome. Not that this had been the first time something like this had ever happened. No, it had been the tenth, eleventh, possibly twentieth time this had happened. And normally she would say fuck it, shut off her brain, and just let him do whatever he wanted but she had had enough.

For once in a very long time, Pansy had felt the small warming flicker of hope. Hope that she thought would forever be locked away in Pandora's box. Hope that things could change, and they didn't have to be as bad as living day by day with no purpose or direction.

When Harry had placed that wand in her hand, she realised immediately that she wanted something to look forward to. Something to enjoy besides the look of an empty bottle and herself beneath some stranger, wasting away in her own self-loathing and despair. After spending months upon months upon years trying to hide away, to close herself off, to just not feel, she had enough.

And maybe that's what made her draw her knee up, kicking him swiftly in the bollocks. Maybe that's what made her draw her wand, shakily pointing at him before screaming “NO!” for what was quite possibly the first time in her life.

She would like to say she felt empowered by the act. Liberated, even. But she felt nothing but sick to her stomach as she spun around and rushed inside, all eyes on her as she stomped up to pay her tab. Her head now pounded in rhythm with her heart and she felt like she wanted to melt. To sink down beneath the floorboards and disappear under everyone’s gaze.

_Pansy the mess._

_Pansy the traitor._

_Pansy the slag._

_Pansy the enormous fuck-up._

She knew it's what they were all thinking. Knew it in the core of her being, deep within her bones. She wanted to cry, she wanted to sob, she wanted to start grabbing glass pints and chucking them at people’s heads as they stared.

And stared.

And stared.

But she didn't. She choked back her feelings, shoving them deep down inside of her, and kept her head down as she pushed her way back out of the pub.

She didn't know what she expected to see when she got outside. But of all the things she could have guessed, it definitely wouldn't have been a team full of Aurors, two medi-witches, and none other than Harry Potter himself. He stood straight, his back turned towards her, and his arms folded as he listened to her attacker.

He was speaking to Harry in an animated fashion, his arms flailing wildly as his lips formed words a mile a minute. She couldn't hear anything he had been saying, and she suspected that there had been a silencing charm in place.

Pansy froze, fear creeping up her neck as each second passed.

No, no,  no. She just got her wand back. 

After dismissing the man, Harry turned around to face her, seemingly unsurprised to see her. “Let's go, Parkinson.”

“But I didn't—” she choked out, trying to defend herself.

“I said let's go,” he ordered with finality. “Grab my arm, I'll apparate you home.”

“I can take a cab,” she said, her stubbornness rearing its ugly head.

“Non-negotiable,” he snapped, grabbing her wrist and apparating them out and away from the bass music and scrutinizing stares. 

 


	3. The Breakdown

**The Breakdown**

 

As soon as Harry and Pansy made it safely to her sitting room, she roughly tugged her arm loose from his grip and stumbled her way into the kitchen without a word.

Still slightly tipsy, she poured herself a mug full of coffee, tapped her wand to the side of it, and noisily flung open a cabinet. Harry stood watching her in silence as she stood on her tippy toes, rifling through its contents. Before long, she emerged with a small bottle of cream liqueur and slammed the door closed. “More alcohol?” he scrutinized.

Pansy quickly shot him a scowl, and if looks could kill, she would have succeeded where the Dark Lord once failed. _If only._

After pouring a generous shot straight into the mug, she brought it to her lips, taking a big swig while blindly digging through her pockets. She could feel his eyes on her still, but Pansy continued to avoid even glancing in his direction.

Not from being ashamed, no, never ashamed. At least not when it came to him. No, this was from anger. She was so bloody pissed off her vision shook, a million heated words bubbling at her throat, begging to be let free. And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that once she met those eyes—that calculating, hardened stare— that it would be all over for her. Everything would be gone. Everything was already gone.

“What happened tonight, Parkinson?” he questioned finally, breaking the silence.

She scoffed, tapping her mug once more and sending it steadily across the room to settle on the coffee table. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she muttered, lighting the end of yet another cigarette. She needed to use her wand as much as she could before it was snatched away, yet again.

“Really?” he replied, mocking an air of surprise. “So the attack outside of the pub was what, exactly?” 

Rolling her eyes, Pansy walked to the sectional and plopped down on it. A habit her mother had desperately tried to break her of.

_Ladies don't plop, Pansy._

_Proper witches sit up straight, Pansy._

_Pansy, sit with your legs together, show that we at least attempted to raise you with some class._

“Parkinson,” Harry snapped, ripping her from her thoughts. She shifted, looking in his direction but refusing to meet his eyes still.

“Here,” she said, throwing the wand towards him, watching as it bounced off of the soft padding of the couch and clunked to the floor. Her throat constricted, and she felt a stinging pain in her chest as she shakily raised her hand to her face and took another drag.

Harry quirked an eyebrow, “What's that for?”

She bit her cheek, desperate to hold on to her calm composure.  Why was he taunting her?  “I already know you're going to take it. Might as well get it over with,” she drawled, grabbing the coffee and taking another gulp. Harry was silent for several seconds, and she could feel nothing else besides the heat radiating up her spine and her heart beating painfully against her breast.

“I need your statement,” he pressed. Tears built pressure behind her eyes and she ground her teeth so hard that they could shatter, holding it back.

“You have his statement,” she finally managed, only speaking once she knew a quiver would be absent from her tone. Why couldn't he just take her sodding wand and leave? Why did he have to drag the whole sodding mess out? Oh, right, because he's Potter. He's nosy, insufferable, and loves wallowing in her misery. She forgot.  

“I need both parties,” he pressed, his tone hard.

Taking a breath, she internally winced, hearing her breathing audibly uneven. She would not show weakness. Not here, not now, and not in front of _him_ of all people. “He said some things to me, I got mad, I attacked him. Just as he's probably told you,” she said, brushing him off with a wave of her hand. “Take the wand and scram. We can talk about my extension tomorrow.” But Harry didn't move. He didn't even twitch towards the wand. He also didn't even bother to reply.

Anger spiked hard within her, and she finally pulled her eyes up to meet his. Just as she had predicted, his gaze was hard and demanding. Confrontational, even. She wanted to slap the look right off the face of the condescending tosser.

She snapped.

“Have you heard me, you daft prickhead?!” her voice rose with every syllable. “Get the fuck out of here!” She pointed to her front door, a heated look of disgust present on her face. But his eyes were hardened, confused, and green. So impossibly green. “Why do you just keep standing there, staring at me?!” she roared again. “Disappointed you can't get rid of me now, are you? You're Harry bleeding Potter! Mr. 'Savior' of the fucking world!”

She stubbed out her cigarette angrily and rose to her feet, making her way towards him. His jaw tightened as she approached and he stared her down, not uttering a word. "Just put in a request, snap your fingers, and have some other prick waltz in to deal with me. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?! I went through three before you were assigned to babysit me, and I'm sure I'll have a dozen more after you leave. Stop fucking acting like you're too sodding bothered to put in the request because of the bloody paperwork.”

“Anything else?” he finally spoke, glaring at her with a heated stare. He was mad, she could tell. It was written all over his face, and she relished in it. Good. He deserved to be just as fucking pissed off as she was at the moment.

“Yeah,” she snapped, a sarcastic and angry smile tugging at her lips. “Since you'll be gone anyway, I might as well tell you that you're a sodding prick, you know that? Always traipsing in after me, looking down on the poor Slytherin fuck-up! Making my life hell and holding grudges just because no one can compare to _you_!” She jabbed a finger at his impossibly hard chest, and Harry glanced down at it for a pregnant moment before his face contorted into a raging glare.  
   
“Watch what you're doing Parkinson,” he warned.

“What's wrong? Don't want a dirty slag touching the precious golden boy?” she sneered, jabbing his chest again. “Well, I'll tell you what, Potter—" His name slipped from her lips like venom, her eyes flashing. Anger, rage, and embarrassment all doing a dance within her, and she could feel her magic pulsing around her, surging the lights, and threatening to break every mirror and window within a ten-kilometer radius.

“You aren't better than me. You're a bloody fraud, you hear me?!" she jabbed him again, "You pretend to be humble and all self-sacrificial, but I see through you. _I—see—through—you_!”

Before she got the chance to jab at him one last time, he gripped her hand, spinning her around and pinning her firmly against the wall behind him. “You don't know shite, Parkinson!” he screamed, specks of spit flying in her face. She kept her chin up, staring straight into his eyes as his hands pinned her loosely by the throat, his body pressed into hers, assuring that she could not move.

“You don't see shite, either. You don't know me," he sneered. "And you're incapable of seeing anything past your own sodding pity party. You think your life is hard, Princess?!  Wake the fuck up!  Every single one of us is trying to get through life after the war. Not just you!” Pansy opened her mouth to speak, but he slammed himself into her again before she could get a word out.

“ _I'm not fucking done_!” he roared. “You had your sodding chance to speak, and now it's my turn. You're right, I could snap my fingers and get you thrown off my case. I could say 'fuck it all' and take off, leaving you to continue to amount to nothing! But I saw potential in you, and I'm not the type to run away from a challenge. But who knows, maybe you are a fucking lost cause at this point! Maybe I should toss you off to the next pitiful tosser and wash my hands of you. Lord knows how fast you'd fuck up the remaining six months with someone else to fucking watch your every move!”

Pansy's mind whirled, and she struggled to stay standing. Remaining six months? So she wasn't getting another extension? Wasn't Harry here to take her wand? What—

“Yeah, that's right,” he snapped back with a malicious smile, his green eyes blazing as he seemed to read her thoughts. “I know exactly what happened tonight Parkinson. I know how he attacked you, I fucking watched it happen. You weren't getting your wand taken, you weren't even going to get an extension or infraction. I needed your bloody statement to send that prick away, but you couldn't give me that, could you?!”  Harry pushed himself away from her angrily and ran a hand through his always messy, impossibly messy hair.

"Can't ever make things fucking easy, of course not!" he said before snapping his eyes back to her and thrusting a finger into her face. "You're bloody lucky you have me because any other Auror would have shipped you off to Azkaban for this shit tonight! Not another fucking soul in that department wants to deal with you, Parkinson. Not a sodding one!”  
  
For once in a very long time, Pansy's thoughts were silent. At least, as silent, as they could be. She struggled to pull words from her brain and arrange them in a way that actually made sense, but failed every time she opened her mouth. Her anger had sizzled and dissipated by now, and the only thing she knew for certain was that this man in front of her, actually did want to help her.

He saw potential in her, well, he did.  But she fucked that up now, didn't she? She was still, her brow furrowed as her thoughts now all raced hard, bleeding into two simple words.

_He cared._

He cared about her. At least he cared enough to try and help her, to try and be there, and she had fought him every step of the way.

_He cared._

_He cared._

_He cared._

Before she could evaluate what she was doing, she made her way to him on wobbly knees, pushed his hands away from his face, and did the unthinkable.

She kissed him.

And time stopped for just a moment. Or maybe it was just him. Frozen in place, his hands stilled in mid-air as his lips formed to hers for a fraction of a second. A reflex, he'd later tell himself. It was a fleeting moment, warm lips on cool. But all too suddenly, he began to move again, pushing her roughly away from him.

Looking her up and down, he sneered and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Get help,” he snapped harshly, then pushed his way out of her front door and disapparated with a crack.  

Pansy's world stood quiet, her heart aching painfully against her chest as she fell to the floor. Hugging her knees, she finally allowed the tears to fall freely.

* * *

She awoke the next morning with another headache and a mascara-stained pillow. It took her four separate tries to pull herself from the warmth and safety of her bed, but eventually, she managed to stumble her way to her feet. Still wearing the same clothes from the night before, she hadn't felt up to changing after Potter had left.

 _Potter_.

Pushing the events of last night to the back of her mind, she felt her neck rise with heat from embarrassment. She ripped off her flannel first, discarding it to the nearest spot on the floor. Various other garments of clothing followed closely behind, littering a trail to the bathroom as she stripped. After filling the tub, Pansy lowered herself beneath the water until nothing but her nose and the top of her head remained.

She had always preferred baths over showers, as they had given her time to relax and rejuvenate herself. Her head still pounded fiercely, and she lifted her hand out of the warm water to get a look at the deep purple bruising on her knuckles.

After her probation Auror had left, she took out her frustrations on various walls of her flat. A particular Muggle move to make, she later contemplated, but necessary. She had gone off the deep end this time, and she knew it.

She needed something, anything, to help her feel. She felt lost in the world, out of control. And although her elicit activities thus far would seem out of control already to most, Pansy held on to the belief that everything that had happened to her was within her power. Every move she made, calculated and thought out. Every move except for last night. 

She kissed _Potter_.

 _Harry_ Potter.

The boy who lived, the chosen one, the man whom she hated and the man whom she was certain hated her back just as fiercely, if not more so. She kissed him.  Intentionally. Like a psychopathic slag trying to seduce her way out of a drunken apparition charge.

She dropped her hand and groaned as she sunk back into the water in embarrassment, rubbing her eye sockets. What the fuck was wrong with her? Did she have some sort of deeply seeded fetish for Ministry officials?

_Oh, Merlin._

And why did she do it, again? Oh, right, because he _cared_.

He cared enough about her not to drop her off on yet another incompetent Auror, whom she would be doomed to fail with. He knew no one else cared to help her, he knew no one other than him would go out of their way to try and have something good come out of the advanced probational system. He thought she had potential.

Pansy snorted.

Only the real kicker was the fact that Potter thought that about everyone. For Merlin's sake, he even tried to give Voldemort himself a second chance at the end of the final battle. It was apart of who he was. He always had to find the good in someone. It was apart of his nauseating charm, and one of the reasons she couldn't stand him.

But she let her emotions get the better of her. She felt stupid, not to mention mortified, over the entire ordeal. Would he drop her as a charge, now? A big part of her wanted him to. To not ever have to see his stupid savior face show up at her front door every week, even for just six visits.

What if someone found out?

What if he told someone?

She could see it now— “Oh yeah, you know that slag, Parkinson? She tried to snog me last night, so I wouldn't take her wand from her.”

No, he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't say it, at least, even if he thought it. Because he was different from most guys, which was bloody annoying in and of itself. If he were a typical guy, maybe she'd know how to handle him. Men were easy.

Potter, was not.

However, the other part of her couldn't deny that she wished he would still show up. Because she knew now that if anyone could help her get her sodding life back to somewhat normalcy, it would be him. And she hated that fact. She hated the fact that she had to rely on anyone, let alone the stupid scarred tosser.

After scrubbing every inch of her body, she pulled the plug on the drain and watched as the soap and dirty water swirled around her and disappeared.

* * *

 

Pansy now stood entirely naked in her massive walk-in closet, a blue towel discarded to the floor some feet behind her. She bit her nail nervously as she looked at the abandoned name-brand clothes she kept hidden in the back, and her fingertips grazed the lines of shoes that wracked the walls. Both Muggle and wizarding brands lay among them, from Chakra K to Jimmy Choo.

She didn't wear the clothing anymore, and looking at it now felt as if the witch who owned it had been a different person altogether. It was as if this witch was a ghost of her past, a fierce and unstoppable fashion icon who took the world by storm. She _was_ somebody. She _meant_ something.

When had it all changed? Had it started with the sentencing for her crimes, or before that? In truth, Pansy wondered if that woman ever truly existed, or if it was an illusion she had created for herself. Maybe that witch was always just who Pansy was right now. Maybe she was a mess too but covered it with an Armani dress and loads of glamour and make-up charms.

Sighing, she spun back around and grabbed a pair of torn Muggle jeans and a loose t-shirt and shut the light out as she exited the closet. Dressing quickly, she grabbed a hold of her shoulder-length bob and tossed it up into a messy bun.

 “You look like a monster”; her mother would say if she could see her. But as of that second, she couldn't be half-arsed enough to care. She had somewhere to be.

Making her way out to the living room, she grabbed her pack of menthols from the coffee table, her eyes lingering on the cracked drywall next to the door. Swallowing down the lump that formed in her throat, her gaze turned to the discarded wand, still lying the same place she had thrown it.

She hesitated for only a moment before snatching it up once again, the familiar thrum of magic coursing up her arm before she tucked it in the back waistband of her trousers, and made her way out the front door.


	4. Shattered Hearts

**Shattered Hearts**

  
“Harry will you just come on?”  
  
He knows that tone, and knows it well. Her voice shows more than an ounce of exasperation and he doesn’t have to fully turn around to know her arms are entangled across her chest, a dip in her brow as she regards him.

The lamp on his desk flashes brighter before mellowing out again, likely a defect. He scowls as he notes that it’s been happening since he bought the damned thing well over a year ago. His eyes flick up to it, and he glares, gripping his pen tighter.  
  
“I’ve changed that bulb about a dozen times, now. Do you think I should have Arthur—“ he stops dead, his words lingering in the air, floating in the still tension for a moment before flickering and fading into silence. He can feel her eyes on the back of his head soften, listening intently as the soft fabric of her work clothes brushes together. She’s making her way towards him, and he stiffens, waiting for the soft hand that drops to his shoulder.  
  
Harry stares down at his paperwork, the words jumbling all over the parchment, letters smearing into a cloud of blotchy ink. He rubs his eyes, and his vision slowly begins to focus again.  
  
“You can’t keep shutting yourself up,” Hermione whispers softly. “It’s not good for you.” She’s patient now, more patient than she ought to be. Her fingers trace lazy circles on the peak of his shoulder, and Harry is screaming internally. He wants to shove her off, push her from the room and shut himself away from everyone.

Not that she’s done anything wrong. No, on the contrary, she’s been better to him than he deserves. The issue isn’t with her. It’s with him, it’s always been with him.  
  
“I have to get back to work…” Harry winces, hiding it well. He doesn’t want to see her; he doesn’t want to have to look at the disappointment laced beneath her soft features. But as he turns, he’s met with nothing but a stone-cold glare. Great, she’s angry. “Hermione...”  
  
“No, it’s fine.” She says with finality, waving him off and summoning her jacket. “I can go by myself, _again_. What sort of excuse should I use this time?” she snapped, turning towards him.  
  
“You’ve got that sodding pesky flu again?” she mocked, “Your cat died? Your car broke down? Your great aunt Muriel finally kicked the bucket? What? Because I don’t know what else I can say to them, Harry! You can’t keep pushing them off!”  
  
“No, that would never work. The Weasleys know I don’t have a great aunt Muriel, and they also know I’m not particularly fond of felines.”  
  
“Harry James—“  
  
Harry chuckles, dropping his pen and swiveling his chair around to face her, grabbing her delicate hands as he looks up to his oldest friend. She softens again, but only slightly, her chocolate eyes burning with intensity. “Look…. I w _ill_ come round. Just… just not now, yeah? I’ve got an arseload of paperwork, I still have to check up on three different cases, and… and I’m just busy, okay?”  
  
“We’re all busy. We’ve all got work and bills to pay. But that doesn’t mean you have to drown in it.”

Harry gave her hands a small squeeze before dropping them, “I’m fine. At least, I will be. Just let me handle this in my own way.”  
  
Hermione was silent for a pregnant moment, and he swore if he were to stop breathing long enough, it would be possible to actually hear the sound of her brilliant and over-analytical mind going 200 kilometers a second.  
  
“Fine,” she relented, making her way towards the door of his office before hesitating. “You know… every time I feel like you’ve made some sort of progress, you end up right back where you started. I want to know how to help you, Harry. But I’m not sure it’s even possible anymore.”  
  
The muscle in his jaw twitched as he clamped down hard enough to shatter his teeth, but she said nothing more as the sound of heeled footsteps echoed their way down the hallway and out of the building.  

 

* * *

  
Now it’s four in the morning, and Harry stands alone in the dark. A cool chill passes, jarring his hair ever so slightly. There’s an eerie murkiness coming from the fog that swirls around him, and it causes him to shutter a bit as his wand functions as the only light source for quite some distance.

His attention flashes back to the long hard couch awaiting him in the corner of his office. He groans, combing his disorderly hair back with his fingers and readjusting the bag that’s slung over his right shoulder. Everything in him wanted to give up and go back, to fling himself atop that red, ink-stained sofa for the third night in a row, letting sleep overtake him. It would be a perfectly reasonable thing to do, after all. He was beyond exhausted even before the apparition had zapped the rest of his energy from him.  
  
But Hermione was right, he thought, her harsh words from earlier still lingering at the back of his cognizance. He needed to go home sometime.

The house wasn’t small, but rather mediocre in size as it had not even come close to rivaling most of the pureblood estates in Great Britain. A Victorian style estate with five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and plenty of garden space. Harry had originally wanted a property in a muggle neighborhood, maybe even take over living at the Black estate that Sirius had left him. But things didn’t quite work out as planned.

In fact, his entire life hadn’t.

Harry’s feet felt heavy as he took a deep breath and trudged across the petite road. He kept his eyes forward as he walked past the gate, up the small walkway, past the “for sale” sign in front, and up the two or three steps to his front door. His heart felt heavy, his tongue felt swollen, and his head pounded as he waved his hand over the knob. As always, the audible “click” sound followed, and he turned the handle, pushing the heavy door open with all of the vigor he had left.

As soon as the foyer noticed his presence, the bright lights above him clicked on, revealing a nicely furnished, but far too empty house. His anxiety peaked, and he tried his best to ignore it as he finally allowed the heavy bag to slide from his shoulder and plop on the floor beside him. He stood there a moment, shutting his eyes and taking in the silence of the place.

“Harry?”

His heart clenched to an aching degree as his name slipped past her lips from somewhere within the house. “Uh, yeah?” he called out, his voice cracking. Harry cleared his throat again, walking towards the kitchen and taking a look around. But no one was there. Not a soul.

“Hello? Ginny?” he called, walking from the kitchen- to the dining room- to the sitting room but… no one was there. Had he lost it? Surely, he was going mad.  
  
“Hey.” she finally spoke, making him jump.

“Bloody!... you nearly gave me a heart attack.” He said, clutching his pounding chest. Ginny threw a faint smile up to him from the nearby sofa. Her pin-straight hair was tied up in a loose bun on top of her head, and she was wrapped in an oversized afghan. His heart skipped several beats at the sight alone.

“I hope you don’t mind; I took a pair of your sweet pants. It’s freezing in here.”

Harry smiled his crooked smile down at her, biting his lip. “They’re tracksuit bottoms, and of course I don’t mind.”

Ginny waved her hand dismissively at him, “They call them sweet pants in the states.”

Harry chuckled, rounding the small table and sitting on the recliner across from her. “I’m pretty sure they call them sweatpants over there.”

“Huh,” Ginny grunted in response, grabbing at the package of sweets she had hidden somewhere beneath the thick blanket. Popping one in her mouth, she stared off into space in an awkward sort of silence. Harry’s smile faded as the stillness set in once again, waves of tension barrowing into the house like a freight train, threatening to drown and swallow him whole.

It was only right at that moment that he suddenly realised that she was here, in his—in _their_ house. He didn’t know what this meant. Why was she here? Looking around, Harry spotted a small blue gym bag tucked around the tiny side table next to where she sat.

“So, uh…” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. He was beginning to sweat, heat rising to his ears. “Is that where you guys have been? The team, that is. The states?”

Ginny’s brown eyes wandered over to him as if just now realizing that he was sitting right in front of her. Maybe she felt just as uncomfortable as he himself did. “Yeah…” She said quietly before readjusting her volume. “Just got back about an hour or so ago. Sorry, I know it’s late. I didn’t think you’d be here. Hermione said that you really haven’t been…” Ginny trailed off, clearing her throat. “Well, I didn’t think you’d be here.”  
  
“It’s fine.” Harry rushed out. “That you’re here, I mean. This is your house too.”  
  
Ginny nodded, popping another candy in her mouth. Harry watched as she fell silent once more. He hated this. The small talk, the pleasantries, the whole sodding lot.  
  
“So will you be staying, then?” he asked, his voice much more confident as he looked into her eyes. Ginny twitched at the bold move, looking back at her candy bag and picking at the edge. Something she always did when she was avoiding something. Fidget.

“Harry…”  
  
“I mean, come on… it’s been months. Surely—“  
  
“No, Harry.” she snapped, her voice slightly muffled by the sweet. She continued to avoid meeting his gaze, and the act shattered what was left of his heart into dust.  
  
“But—“  
  
“No.” she said firmer. “We’ve gone over this again and again, it’s not going to happen. It’s over between us. I think you should know that by now.” Harry froze, swallowing down the thick saliva that formed in his throat. “You really need to move on already.” She added for good measure before tossing the rest of the candy to her duffle bag and turning towards him.  
  
Harry stood, his entire body tingling from his neck down to his toes; a vibration that could splinter glass and cut him with the shards. He was speechless. He opened his mouth several times to respond. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t fair for her to treat him like this. He wanted to say how sorry he was. For everything. He wanted to tell her how much he missed her, and how much he loved her and how much heartache this was causing him. He wanted to say a million things at once, but he also wanted to say nothing at all and within minutes— no, seconds— the words jumbled throughout his head, mixing and whipping and turning into some sort of inhuman language that slowly drove him to madness.  
  
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t decipher it. He stood there, looking into the eyes of the woman he loved, and nothing would come out. Not even a sound. Swiveling on the heels of his feet, Harry took off down the hallway, tears stinging at the edges of his eyes. Furious tears. Tears of anger, rage, and hatred. Not towards Ginny, but towards himself. How could he be so utterly stupid?

“Look… I’m sorry!” she called after him, but it was too late, he was already locked in the master bedroom, angry tears falling freely as he undressed and got ready for bed.

* * *

 

  
Harry sprung awake in a cold sweat and immediately reached beside him. His fingers brushed the cool sheets nearby as he registered that he was alone. Not that it was surprising, really. He had been alone for more than a few months now, so waking up to an empty bed shouldn’t feel all that new to him.  
  
But for whatever reason, it still did.  
  
He had had another bad dream that night, as he did most nights. Flashes of war and death beleaguered his slumber, an ear piercing scream, a child crying, and blood. So much blood.

Plunging his palms to his eye sockets, Harry rubbed the sleep away, flipping the covers off of himself and sitting up with great caution. He didn’t know if Ginny had still been in the house, and immediately after having remembered the night prior, a plaguing guilt set in. He didn’t even realise he had taken up the bed all to himself last night. She must have slept on the couch.

He sighed, scratching his head lazily before dragging himself out of the warm comfort of his sheets and heading to the attached bathroom. From the look of things, it seemed to be late morning (if not early afternoon) and he was hoping that if said ex _was_ still around, she’d hear the shower click on and head off somewhere.

It was a selfish thought, he knew. But truth be told, he really didn’t want to see her right now. He didn’t want to see anyone, actually. But especially not her.

By the time he showered, dressed, and headed downstairs he noticed that the house was empty. Truly empty this time. He didn’t know for how long, but he did notice that the kettle was on in the kitchen, a note sat lying beside it. His fingers trembled only slightly as he picked it up.

  
_Harry,_

_I’m really sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to come off so harsh, I just need to you to understand that… although you and I aren’t together, I still do care about whether or not you’re okay. That doesn’t mean that we’re getting back together, though. The wounds are still fresh between us, and they might be for some time._

_That doesn’t mean that we can’t eventually be good friends again. I want to be friends with you. I want you to go visit my family. I want you to spend time with Hermione, and just move on with your life._

_That’s what I’m doing._

_Harry, I didn’t want to tell you this. And I was advised not to, but maybe it’ll help you understand… I’ve met someone. What you and I had was great once, but it just wasn’t meant to last forever. I hope you understand. I really think you need to get out of the house. Take a break from work or something._

_Take care of yourself, Har._  
  
\- Ginny

Harry barely even blinked as he ripped the paper into tiny little shreds and tossed them in the general direction of the trashcan and grabbed the warm kettle. He ignored the little bits of parchment that scattered themselves across the hardwood floor as he poured his cup and reached for a tea bag.

Met someone else, ha! Whatever she wanted, he didn’t even care anymore. Not after last night. If she wanted to go around slagging around like Parkinson, she could have at it. They could become like two little peas in a pod, and even share stories about what Malfoy was like in bed. Ugh, gross.

Harry had seen the papers alright, but up until now he hadn’t even entertained the thought of believing them. Ginny and Harry had _just_ broken up a measly 9 months or so ago. Besides…Rita was known for exaggerating stories, but now that Harry thought about it… how likely was it that she just picked Draco Malfoy’s name out of some ruddy hat? And now she said she’s actually seeing someone?

She’s seen the headlines, if she _wasn’t_ seeing Draco, why wouldn’t she specify that?

Harry was no longer upset. No… Harry was _pissed_. Practically slamming his tea down, Harry summoned his wand, calling for his bag that was most likely still plopped on the floor of the foyer. He needed to talk to Hermione as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

“Ginny is not seeing Malfoy, Harry.”  
  
Harry scoffed, “Right. How would you know? Don’t suppose she would’ve told you.”  
  
Hermione glared at him as he began slamming through the paperwork scattered across his dining room table with a somewhat manic look on his face. She stood beside him, refusing to sit as he cracked quill tip after quill tip on every other page he signed off on.

“Because I know.”

Harry scoffed again, “Just like you “knew” he wasn’t a Death Eater in sixth year?”

“Don’t you air quote at me!” she snapped, finally grabbing the back of the seat and ripping it from the table to sit down.

“Look, Harry, I’m happy you’re finally expressing some other emotion besides depression, but anger doesn’t suit you.”  
  
Harry glanced at her sideways, quirking a curious brow. “Anger doesn’t suit me?! I’ve been angry for most of my life!”  
  
Hermione sighed, “Yes, but that doesn’t mean it _suits_ you. You need to calm down, we can talk rationally about this.”

Harry laughed flat out, scowling down back at the parchment in front of him again. “Rational. Of course. So tell me, Hermione. How do you know that Malfoy isn’t having sex with my ex fiancé?”  
  
Hermione mumbled something practically inaudible.

  
“You know, just because that git got out of his damned jail time doesn’t mean he’s off the hook in my terms. He might not have been a big bad evil sod, but he was a git. He was a git in school, he’s a git now, and you know what?”  
  
“Harry, stop, I’m trying to tell you something!” Hermione said, smacking her hand on the table. He ignored her.  
  
“He’s always been jealous of me. He’s been jealous of my friends, my Quidditch abilities. He’s always wanted what I have. So what does he do? He jumps into bed with my _fucking_ —“  
  
“H _arryI’mtheonesleepingwithhim_!” Hermione shot out, fast as lightening, her voice rising octaves above his own.  
  
Harry froze mid speech, “I’m sorry? Come again?”  
  
“I’ve been trying to tell you that I’m the one that’s been sleeping with Draco. Not Ginny.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry this update has taken so long, but I got stuck so many times. I literally wrote 4 or 5 different chapters that I ended up hating and tossing. However, the good news is that I already have almost half of chapter five written out, yay!! I hope you like this chapter, I've put my own blood into it. Feedback would be lovely xx
> 
> See you next update!


	5. Torn

**Torn**

 

The wand tucked in Pansy’s waistband was distracting. She could feel it digging into her side painfully as she walked through Muggle London, hyper aware of her surroundings as she made her way to the seedy pub she had been frequenting as of late.

She thought for a moment of going to the Malfoy's to hunt down Draco, but after her breakdown the night before, she realised that she would rather not see anyone she knew from that part of her life. Truth be told, she was embarrassed. And although there was only one other person who witnessed her meltdown on the last night she had ventured out, she couldn’t help but feel like everyone had known what had happened.

Besides, Potter was friends with Granger. And if Potter had told Granger, which he would, then there was a pretty good chance that baby Malfoy knew as well. It hurt her head to think about.

“Hey John!” she called to the barkeep as she made her way through the entrance. John was an older Muggle, somewhere around his sixties with a wicked beard and a plethora of tattoos covering his arms. To any outsider, he looked rough and mean around the edges. But his eyes were kind and deep smile lines sprouted from the sides.  
  
No, anyone who knew John knew he was a softie.

“Parker,” he replied with a dip of his head as she approached and hoisted herself onto the stool in front of him. “Didn’t see you here the last few days, you sick or something?”

Barking a laugh, she watched as the man stood behind the counter, dirty rag in hand as he wiped down various glasses and pints. The bar was empty, sans a few stragglers in the back. As always, they were beginning their night at nine PM with a whiskey and cigarette. “No, no. I’m fine. Just had a friend come into town so I was entertaining her, you know how it is.”

John’s eyebrows rose slightly, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “You have friends, now, do ya’?” Pansy scrunched her nose towards him but didn’t reply. “Alright luv, what’ll it be today? The usual?”

John reached for the tall vodka bottle secured safely on the shelf behind him. It was about three quarters of the way gone already, and she was pretty sure that was her own doing. Swallowing thickly, Pansy reached her hand out towards the man to stop him. “Actually… I’m starving. Do you guys still make those chips? The ones with the cheese dripped over them?”

The barkeep eyed her for a moment, before a lax understanding fell over his features. “Sure, kiddo. Comin’ right up.”

* * *

 

 Pansy ate her chips in silence, watching as the pub slowly filled with the bar’s regulars. A few even greeted John and Pansy politely as they made their way in.

“Parker!” she heard a squeal from behind her, making the young witch grimace. It was Ella, a Thursday night usual who (although very nice) was far too energetic for Pansy’s liking.  
  
“Ella, how nice to see you!” she greeted with the smoothness of any Slytherin, kissing each cheek in welcome. The woman was only a tad bit shorter than she herself was, with blond hair that stretched to her bum and ice blue eyes that contrasted against the thick gunky eyeliner caked around them.

She reminded Pansy of a lot of Narcissa Malfoy, in a way. That is… besides the ill-fated circumstance that Ella Washington couldn’t dress to save her life. But still, the resemblance was eerily uncanny. At one point, Pansy was even curious enough to investigate the woman’s parentage, wondering if it were possible that she was a secret Black sister; a squib hidden in plain sight.

Pureblood families hiding squib successors and lineages was unfortunate, but fairly common. It was entirely possible she had come across a distant cousin or two while hanging around the area. The thought made her shutter. She’d hoped not.

But regrettably, all that Pansy’s little investigation into the Washington woman led to was an awkward dinner date with Ella, her grandmother Karen; and her dumber-than-rocks son, Ted, who kept trying to play footsies with her under the table.

 “How are you?” Ella gushed. “Have you gotten your drinks yet? By god, John, get this poor girl a sex on the beach, she looks hyper-stressed!”  
  
“Oh, no thank you darling,” Pansy cut in, shooting the woman a barely-there smile. “I overdid it a bit last night. In fact, I think I’m just going to have a sparkling water… if you would, John?”  
  
“You got it, kiddo.”

Eying the young witch suspiciously, Ella plopped herself on the bar stool to her left. “What’s going on?”

Pansy threw her a muddled look feigning confusion, “I’m sorry?”

“Parker, you look like shite… no offense.” Ella threw in at the last second. “What’s going on?”

The witch’s first instinct was to get defensive, to mind her on sodding business. But just as she opened her mouth to make up some sort of excuse, her eyes were immediately drawn to the front entrance. Along with several others.  
  
“Merlin…”  
  
Ella’s brow furrowed at the name. Following Pansy’s line of sight, she turned, her eyes lighting up, “He your’s, darling?”  
  
Harry Potter stood at the front of the pub, hands thrust in his pockets as his cheeks reddened, clearly feeling the impact of half of the pub eye-fucking him. He didn’t seem to have noticed Pansy yet, however.  
  
“I’ll be right back.” She gritted through her teeth, hopping off the stool and practically stomping her way up to him as she felt eyes on her back.  
  
“I’ll take him if you don’t!” Ella called after her, infuriating Pansy even more as she closed in on him.  
  
“Are you _following_ me?” the raven-haired witch sneered, trying to keep her voice low yet threatening while she struggled to maintain her temper. Harry’s head turned, green eyes landing on her. She watched as recognition dawned on him, and continued to look on as his face fell to a sour wince. His jaw clenched, “No.”  
  
“Fat chance at that,” Pansy scoffed, “Why the hell are you here, then?”

The tint was gone from Harry’s cheeks, his brows scrunching towards the middle as heat prickled its way up the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “That’s none of your business.”  
  
“What do you mean it’s _none of my business_?” she snapped, crossing her arms and popping her hip. “When my bloody Auror shows up to—“  
  
Harry’s eyes widened, and he threw a worried glance at his surroundings. “Can we take this outside?”  
  
“Why?!” she shrieked, only acutely aware of just how much attention she was drawing. “I haven’t done anything wrong, you have _no_ reason to be following me here! I thought the damned agreement was that I got more freedom, not a sodding _stalker_!”  
  
Grabbing the inner part of her elbow, Harry began leading her outside and away from prying eyes.  
“Get– _getoffofme_! I swear you fucking prat, I will hex you to--” Pansy huffed, tugging her arm loose and readjusting her flannel. “I’m really getting sick and tired of you doing that!!”  
  
“Calm down.”  
  
“I am calm!!!” she shouted, her voice bouncing and ricocheting its way down the street. Pansy’s heart clenched at the sound and she froze for a beat, clearing her throat, “I am calm.”  
  
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, crossing his right arm over his left and grasping his _own_ elbow this time.  
  
“You can’t be serious,” she sneered, dropping her arms to her sides in exasperation. “Were you not listening to anything I just said in there?”  
  
“No, not really.”  
  
Pansy’s face contorted, her anger spiking. She grabbed the bridge of her nose and dipped her head, trying to remain calm. The man was a menace. Perhaps not to society, but to her, and she only wished that was reason enough to have him properly committed. Maybe then he’d be assigned his _own_ prattish Auror and finally be able to comprehend her pain.  
  
“I was busy trying to remove the shrieking witch from the _Muggle_ facility before her ramblings accidentally let something slip and I’d have to send her away for disrupting the Statute of Secrecy.” Pansy growled. Harry continued,  “We’d have to bring in obviators and everything, and you do know how _much_ I hate the paperwork.”  
  
Pansy’s fists clenched, her nails biting into the palm of her hand hard enough to leave imprints. “King wanker. Lord Git. Sovereign prat of the entire pillock village. Dickwad, wankstain, knobhead, wozzock, arsemonger, chuffer—“  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Oh, sorry…” she said, waving him away. “I didn’t realise I was speaking aloud.”  
  
Harry glared at her hard before straightening back up and running a hand through his tousled locks. “What are you doing here, anyhow? I thought you lot were too posh to visit these sorts.”  
  
“ _My_ lot?” she began to say before she noticed him. _Really_ noticed him.  
  
When Harry Potter had first walked into the pub, the initial thing she had seen was his usual messy hair and round spectacles. His seemingly constant presence alone as of late had her assuming he was there for her, and for good reason. What else would boy wonder doing in a small muggle pub in downtown London? Her eyes traveled to his bare arms, and only then did she notice the absence of the jacket.  
  
It was the same stale-purple jacket all Aurors wore when travelling to a primarily muggle area. The dress code had been enacted sometime after the war. Potter’s idea, if she ventured a guess. It was publicized that it was to help the magical authorities not stand out as unordinary, while allowing Muggleborns and other magical folk know that they were in the area.

She had seen him wear it on multiple occasions. She was even sure he had worn it a while back to pick her up from the Muggle police station after a slight altercation with the wife of a man she was seeing at the time. Pansy waved the memory away.

“Where’s your jacket?” she asked bluntly, interrupting some weird jab he was on about. Something about Purebloods not associating themselves with someone or another. Frankly, she was tired of it.  
  
“What?” Harry cut himself off, dumbfounded. His cheeks beginning to twinge pink again, his pulse racing. Pansy’s heart clutched at the sight.  
  
“You’re… oh my gods, you’re here to get _sloshed_ , aren’t you?”  
  
“No, I—“

“Yes you are! I’ll bet you’re here to get your little prick wet with some—“  
  
“Enough, Parkinson.” Harry snapped with stubborn authority, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re already on thin ice with me, I won’t stand here and play your little games.”  
  
Pansy scowled, “You’re not on duty, I have absolutely no reason to listen to you.” Harry rolled his eyes, pushing his way past her.  
  
“Wait!” she called to him, stopping Harry in his tracks. “What are you doing?”

A look of irritation washed over his face, “What am I… What in the bloody hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m going into the fuckin’ pub!”

“No.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Harry’s body was now facing her, and he stood pin straight, towering over her, arms crossed.

“I said no. I was here first. Scram.”  
  
“You don’t own the pub, Parkinson.”  
  
“You don’t know that.” She snipped, smirking up at him. “I’m _loaded_ , remember? I could have easily purchased a muggle pub.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed a fraction as he looked her up and down. “I-

_Slam, bang, creak._

“Hey Parker! _”_ the voice of Arnold, a nightly regular, called out.  
  
“Shite,” Pansy cursed under her breath, dropping her head once again to pinch the bridge of her nose.

 “Is… Is this _bitty_ man bothering you? That… that _pretty boy_?”

Pansy opened her mouth to tell him that she was just fine on her own, but Harry had beaten her to the punch, “She’s dandy.”

The young witch glared.

“S’cuse me?” Arnold’s sloshed tone rang out, followed by heavy footsteps. He was a portly man, almost bald, but he had some bulk to him… and he was staggering around, absolutely piss faced drunk.

“Who do you think ya’ are?” he breathed, Pansy cringed. This couldn’t possibly be happening. “I believe I was talkin’ ta Parker over there. S’yer name Parker?”

“I’m fine, Arnie. Harry and I were just having a… discussion.” Pansy interjected, trying to coax the man back inside before he collapsed atop one of them. He seriously didn’t look like he should even be standing.

Why Pansy had been finding herself outside of random pubs with Harry and some sloshed moron as of late, she wasn’t quite sure. However, what she was sure about, was the fact that Arnold had gotten entirely too close to wizard now, standing practically toe to toe.  
  
“Do I know you?” Arnold asked, squinting up to Harry.

Reaching forward, Pansy latched onto the wobbly man’s sweaty arm, praying he didn’t fall over as she tugged him in the direction of the pub’s entrance. “No, I don’t think you do, Arnie. Come on, let’s get you back— “

Arnold tugged hard against her, causing her to lose grip of him without his attention wavering. “No, I do know you! You’re…”  
  
Pansy’s heart thudded against her chest as she looked on. “You’re Harry… something. Harry… I don’t remember…”  
  
“Arnie…”  
  
“Quiet, girl.” He called over his shoulder, sparking irritation. “You… you got a metal! That’s it. For services to the NCA. I saw it on the telly a while back!”  
  
Arnold smiled to himself, clearly pleased that his memory was in working order. Of course he would be recognized, even by Muggles. Wonder boy walked around with a target on his bloody forehead. Quite literally. This seriously couldn’t be happening.

“Say, whatchu doin’ around here, for? I suppose you could pay yerself a better slag than Parker, yeah?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Pansy snapped, walking up and putting herself between uncharacteristically quiet Potter and the Muggle man. “What did you just call me?”

Arnold smiled sheepishly. “Don’t worry, luv, I ain’t gonna judge ya.”  
  
“I most certainly am not a prostitute.”  
  
“Coulda’ fooled me, with the way you act.” He chuckled, stepping back to put distance between them.

 Pansy scoffed, heat prickling it’s way up her neck as she contemplated hexing the stupid Muggle.  
  
“I think you should probably head back in.” Harry spoke up finally, glaring down at the frumpy man with a cold detachment.

“Do ya’?” Arnold said, his eyebrows raising and his chest puffing out. “And what makes ya think ya can tell me what to do?”

“Will you just go back inside?” Pansy snapped, her eyes blazing.  
  
“Get out of the way, Kitten, the grownups are talkin’.” The man sneered, pushing her hard. Pansy fell to the concrete, Harry watched on, stiffening. “What makes ya’ the king of everything, eh? You think just because you won some fancy metal for God knows what, you can go around and tell people what to do now?”

“I could just call the police,” Harry drawled with a sneer as the man reproached, once again stepping toe to toe with him. Before Pansy could blink, Harry mumbled something she didn’t quite catch, triggering the frumpy man swung a fist up, connecting his knuckles to Harry’s jaw with a crack. Harry stumbled back, clutching his face.

“John!” she called out, rushing to her feet and stumbling to the door, flinging it open. “John!”

* * *

 

 “Are you okay?” Pansy asked gently. Harry now sat on the curb of the road, clutching a bloodied bandana to his lip.

Thankfully, the barkeep had intervened, dragging away Arnold before the situation escaladed any further. She couldn’t afford to be pulled into another sodding fight, ending with the muggle police involved.

“I’m fine,” Harry snapped. “You can go back inside.”

Pansy frowned, chewing on her lip as she approached him and lowered his arm from his face. The raven-haired wizard glared, but allowed it. Wincing, she took in the sight of dried blood and bruising, his lip was torn.  
  
“I can fix that,” she said sternly, reaching for the back of her waistband.  
  
“No!” he roared, snatching his elbow from her grasp. “Keep that thing away, Parkinson. Last thing I need is—“  
  
“Potter there aren’t even any muggles out here, and you’re bleeding—“  
  
“I doesn’t matter!” he snapped back, drawing to a stand. “I didn’t push for you to get your wand back so you could fuck it up within the first week of having it.”

Pansy scowled, “Fine. I was just trying to help.”  
  
“I don’t need your fucking help!” he yelled, his voice ricocheting and his brows knitted into a cold glare.

Mouth snapping shut, Pansy frowned at him before raising to her feet and stomping inside. Eyes watched as she promptly trudged to the back, practically flinging open the side gate to the bar with a _smack_. John said nothing, just simply watched on as the young witch angrily began filling a small plastic bag with ice. 

“Lord fucking git,” she mumbled, angrily throwing the scoop back into the ice bin and closing the zip-lock bag.

“Should I call an ambulance?” Ella spoke out.  
  
“No.” Pansy replied coldly, flipping the gate back down. But by the time she got out to the street, Potter was gone. In fact, there was no sign that he was ever even there, other than the bloodied handkerchief thrown atop the trash bin just beyond the door.  
  
Pansy huffed, tossing the bag of ice in as well, and heading back inside.

“Hey John!” she called. “Got any tequila?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I updated this morning and the chapter disappeared. Wonderful! Anyway, reposting! Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments, it means the world! See you next update. x


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